


I Loved You First

by dismalzelenka



Series: Bard Songs: A Songfic Collection [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, But also they find feelings, Dom/sub, F/M, Face-Fucking, Feelings what are feelings, Oops, Spanking, Sub!Hawke, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, and my two kirkwall disasters, and people in general, but he was dtf too so., dom!Samson, marian kind of...stalks him?, oh kirkwall my shithole, shameless porn, she didn't mean for it to be creepy, she's really bad with words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 20:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13689168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismalzelenka/pseuds/dismalzelenka
Summary: Hawke can't stop thinking about her drunken one night stand. She finally summons up the courage to ask Varric for an address so she can...fuck him again? Ask him to drink with her? She's really not sure yet, but she's sure as shit going to go find out.Sequel to Sweetest Downfall, inspired by Samson by Regina Spektor. :)





	I Loved You First

Hawke stood in front of the rundown dockside shanty and wondered where her life had gone wrong. She glanced at the scrap of parchment in her hand and double checked the address scrawled on the wall in a sloppy hand with questionably colored paint alongside several layers of crude graffiti. Yep, this was definitely the place. She shoved the parchment into her pocket and took a deep breath. “Alright, Hawke, now or never,” she muttered and knocked on the door.

She heard several uneven footsteps followed by Samson’s annoyed growl. “The fuck do you want?” A deadbolt scraped across the wall, there was a scrabbling noise, and then the door swung open. Samson froze when he saw her. “Can I help you?”

Hawke cleared her throat awkwardly. “I, uh. Wanted to…uh…”

“Well?” He leaned on the door frame and stared at her impatiently. “Spit it out already.”

“Oh, fuck this.” She stepped forward, determined to beat her quickly waning resolve, and kissed him. Or, she would have, had her foot not caught in the landing and sent her sprawling forward into his chest.

“Void, woman,” he grunted, stumbling back into the darkness as her body weight slammed into his torso. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough,” Hawke mumbled. She tasted blood where her teeth cut her lip and was beginning to wonder if coming here mostly sober had been a mistake. Samson hauled her to her feet, and she heard him fumbling for something with a stream of curses under his breath.

“Damn candles,” he grumbled. “Too fucking hot to keep a fire going, lighting these blighted things is a pain in my ass-”

“Let me,” she offered. “You know, um. Magic.” She took the candle he thrust at her in annoyance and lit it with a wave of her hand. He cursed when he caught a glimpse of her lip and grabbed a grimy washcloth from a rusted washbasin in the corner of the room.

“You're daft, you know that?” He shook his head incredulously and guided her to an overturned crate where he sat her down and started dabbing at her mouth.

“I've been told,” she deadpanned.

“You plan on telling me what you're doing here now?”

She rubbed at the bridge of her nose, face flushing at the thought of actually having to _explain_ herself. “I…after the other night…I-” Andraste’s flaming tits, what _was_ she trying to say? That she actually missed him and wanted to see him again? That she'd been aching for his cock back between her legs? That the night she'd spent sprawled out behind a dockside tavern with him was the first night since Bethany’s death she hadn't been plagued with nightmares of her family dying, that their drunken one night stand had done the unimaginable and finally kept her darkness at bay?

Maker help her, she was a grown woman in a stranger’s home stammering like a teenaged girl, why had she thought coming here was a good idea? _Just tell him you had a good time the other day. Ask if he wants to do it again._

“Wanna fuck?” she blurted. _Fucking Void._

“Come again?”

“Exactly!” she giggled. _Maker have mercy._ “I mean. Um.” Coming here tipsy had been a mistake. Sloshed or sober, she had always been a woman of extremes, and this unbearable awkwardness was only hammering home the point that half-assing her alcoholism tonight had been a terrible idea. She cleared her throat. “Let me try that again. The other night. Behind the…what was that fucking place called? That shithole down the road. Let's do that again. Minus the shithole. That particular shithole.” She cringed. Andraste’s ass, she was starting to sound like Merrill.

Samson stared at her, mouth agape. “You having me on?” he said finally.

Hawke stood up from the chair, legs unsteady, face burning crimson. Fuck everything. They were both drunk that night, Of course he didn't actually want her. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I…I shouldn't have come here. I'm so sorry, I'll-”

“Wait.” He caught her wrist and spun her around to face him, pale green eyes studying her intently. “You're serious, aren't you?” he breathed, an incredulous expression on his face.

“Yes.” She hated the way her voice shook. She hated how fucking nervous she was, because she was Marian Fucking Hawke and she had torn through a year of mercenary jobs with ruthless efficiency, staring death and dismemberment in the face without blinking, only to stand trembling like a leaf in front of a man. A man she really wanted to fuck again.

“Maker's balls. You're really serious.” He cupped her jaw with his hand, rough fingertips trailing down her cheek. “Why?”

Hawke closed her eyes. “Does there need to be a reason?” she whispered.

“Suppose not,” he grunted after a moment of tense silence. Then, “You know I'm old enough to be your father.”

“I don't care.”

His fingers trailed down her cheek again. “Open your eyes,” he said, his voice softer now. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “I'm not a gentle man, Hawke.”

“Do I look like I want gentle?” She watched his gaze shift at that, a lustful hunger in his eyes as they traveled down her body. “I want you to fuck me.”

That did it. He grabbed her jaw roughly and stared into her eyes. “Undress,” he commanded.

_Thank the Maker._ Hawke scrambled to do as he said, yanking her shirt over her head without bothering with any of the laces. She had barely scrambled out of her trousers when he pinned her roughly to the wall, one hand tucked around her throat. “Still sure you want this?”

“Yes.” She stared defiantly into his eyes. “All of it.”

He threaded his fingers through her hair and shoved her to her knees, using his other hand to free himself from his breeches. “Open that pretty mouth,” he ordered, and she did. She gagged when the length of his cock touched her throat but didn't pull away, and when he started fucking her face she felt warmth ebuilding low in the center of her, dampness pooling between her bared thighs. She couldn't quite put a finger on what it was that drew her back to him, or what exactly it was that made her want to follow his every command while her sex dripped with need, but maybe that was it.

To him, she wasn't just an untethered apostate, a skinny little village brat, or even Malcolm Hawke’s oldest daughter with all the talons inherited straight from her father's hands. She wasn't Hawke the mercenary, either, armed to the teeth and a terror to behold even without her magic, kaddis swiped across her face daily like blood. No, Samson didn't fear her, but beneath his roughness there was a distinct sense of intent, apparent in how he paused every so often to meet her eyes and ensure she still wanted what he had to give.

He respected her but never shied away from her, and maybe that was all she needed from anyone.

His grip on her bare shoulders was rough enough to leave bruises, but she moaned through gritted teeth. The pain only set her nerves on fire for more, more, _more_ , and Maker almighty did he know how to deliver. He dragged her to his cot and draped her over his lap. “Hope you know how to count, little bird,” he murmured, and without any further warning, his palm slammed against her rear.

“Fuck!” she yelped, the impact bringing tears to the corners of her eyes. The man might be a penniless lyrium addict now, but he was still Chantry trained, and damned if he didn't have a bit of that left in his arms.

“Fuck don't sound like a number to me, girl,” he chided. “Best start from the beginning.”

He brought his hand down on the other cheek. She cried out again, in pain and pleasure both as the air left her lungs.

“Fucking void, girl, if you don't start counting, Maker help me, I will throw you out of this shack,” he hissed.

When he slapped her ass again, she counted. She counted between swears and unintelligible epithets and enough depraved filth to make a sailor blush like a newly collared Chantry sister, and she could feel her own slick dripping between her legs and onto his trousers by the time she reached ten. He rubbed circles against her bruised flesh, drawing a desperate whine from between her lips as she pressed her thighs together and squirmed in his lap.

“Please,” she begged, but she wasn’t entirely sure exactly _what_ she was begging for anymore. He trailed his fingers gently down the curve of her ass before he parted her legs and slid a finger along her dripping slit.

“You're so wet for me,” he whispered gruffly. “You love it when I treat you like an alleyway whore.”

Hawke whimpered when he said that. It was true. She would have done anything then if it meant he would keep touching her. She was lost under his touch, still bent over his knees, back arching as he teased her clit and slipped his fingers inside her and back out again. “Please,” she whispered, and her voice cracked with need.

* * *

 

Samson hadn’t believed his eyes when the infamous Marian Hawke showed up at his doorstep looking for a quick fuck. He’d long since filed away their drunken antics behind the Witch’s Tit as exactly that: a besotted one night affair that no one would ever speak of again in the light of day. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed it. Hawke was an attractive woman, one who’d turned his head from the very first day she walked by his corner of the Docks.

She didn’t wear robes often. The first time he saw her, she was in skintight trousers that displayed her long, muscular legs. She could probably smother a man between those legs, he remembered thinking as she walked past. The more he heard of her reputation in the days to follow, the more he’d been convinced she probably had, in fact, done exactly that at least once.

When she tripped over his threshold into his arms, he’d begun to wonder if she’d hit her head recently. When she stammered her proposition, he knew someone, somewhere, had to be playing a cruel joke. What could a woman like her possibly want with a burned out husk of a man like him?

Maker’s arse, but she was a beautiful sight, bent over squirming on his lap. His cock was unbearably hard, and he could feel himself twitch whenever she rubbed against it.”Ten more, little bird?”

“ _Please_!” she gasped when his hand rubbed circles on her ass.

“Use your numbers this time,” he commanded.

“One!” she yelped when his hand connected with bare flesh. “Two! Three- _fuck_!”

He soothed the burn with the palm of his hand, then trailed his fingers between her legs. She was dripping. Her arousal coated her inner thighs, and her scent was divine. He dipped his fingers into her cunt and devoured her nectar. “You taste like sin, little girl,” he rumbled. She only whimpered in response. He brought his hand down on her ass again, relishing the way her flesh quivered at his touch.

“Four!” she sobbed. “Five! Maker, fuck- six! Seven!”

“Three more, little bird,” he murmured, running his hand gently, soothingly, across her back and ass. “You’re doing so well.”

“Eight!” she yelped, curling her fingers tightly around his threadbare wool blanket. He teased at her cunt again, savoring the way she moaned when he slid two fingers into her and pumped them slowly in and out. Her whine when he withdrew them was exquisite.

“Nine- oh fuck - _TEN_ -” He could see the bruises beginning to form on her skin, the little red blotches where his palms had marked her. He slipped his fingers back into her slick, wet heat and brushed his thumb against her pearl until she bucked and writhed, a loud wail bursting from her lips. He pumped slowly, lightly, gently bringing her back down until her body relaxed, spent, in his lap. She was still shaking underneath him, her breath coming in heavy, whimpering gasps.

He slipped his hands under her shoulders and eased her upright, pulling her body against his, holding her and stroking her hair as she clung to him and buried her face into his shoulder. It wasn’t until he pressed gentle kisses into her temples that he suddenly realized he had no idea what he was doing.

* * *

 

Hawke wasn’t sure when she’d ended up straddling Samson’s lap, or how her arms had made their way around his shoulders, but she was suddenly dimly aware of his fingers through her hair, a hand tightened securely around her waist, chapped lips gently brushing against her head. “Samson, I-” She trailed off when she noticed the quaver in her voice, that she was shaking uncontrollably in his arms. She realized then that his arms felt like _security_.

“Shh,” he whispered. It was nice, she decided, the way his fingers felt in her hair. She rather liked it.

“Thought you weren’t a gentle man, Samson,” she teased, trailing her fingers down the hard planes of his back.

“Raleigh,” he grunted.

“Hm?”

“My name’s Raleigh.”

It was an impulsive thing to do, perhaps, with a man she barely knew after only a second fuck. Marian wore impulsivity like a second skin. She pulled away from him just enough to see his face, and then her lips were on his, their tongues tangling warm and wet and wanting. He tasted faintly like lyrium, and underneath that, embrium and the bitter tang of spindleweed. Questions rose in her mind, questions like “are you sleeping alright?” and “do you have enough potions for the pain?” but she forced them down and focused on the way he nipped at her lower lip, the way he teased at her tongue, moaned against her lips, and gripped her even tighter against his body. The seaside breeze was chilly, but he radiated warmth, and she needed to feel him. “Take this off,” she whispered, tugging at his shirt.

He stared at her in surprise, so she leaned back and hooked her fingers under his shirt insistently. “Your clothes. You’re still _wearing_ them.”

When he released her and stood up to take off his shirt, she unlaced his trousers with practiced ease and slid them to the floor. Maker, he was _hard_ , his cock straining at his smalls. She pulled those down too, tapping at his legs until he stepped out of his clothing. One hand wrapped around his cock, the other trailed down his inner thigh, and she kissed her way up his legs until her lips grazed his balls. He smelled like sweat and arousal, and she inhaled his scent deeply as warmth flooded her core again with need. “Raleigh,” she whispered. “I want this.”

The sound of his name on her lips stirred something in him. He bent down, picked her up, and set her on the cot before settling down on top of her, a strange expression on his face.

“I want _you_ ,” she said again, insistently, baffled at his hesitation.

He paused, and for a moment she’d never seen anyone look so weary. But then he looked up, and his eyes were dark with desire when he appraised the way she looked underneath him. “Me too, little bird.”

She felt the tip of his cock brush against her folds, and her fingers instinctively tightened around his neck in anticipation. He was slower, this time, gentler when he entered her, and as much as she loved the way he’d manhandled her earlier, the new feelings this evoked were surprisingly intense. Each thrust sent shivers down her spine, each motion stoking a fire in her that burned so hot she wondered for a moment if she’d actually set his bed aflame. There were no words exchanged this time, just gasps and sighs, grunts and breathy, unspoken promises. She drew his head down and kissed him again, softly, tenderly, a lovers’ kiss. Was that what they were? Did it even matter?

When he found his release in her she clung to him and pressed her forehead against his chest. “Raleigh,” she whispered. She loved the way his name tasted on her tongue.

When he finally withdrew from her and rolled over, he cradled her against his chest and pressed his face into her hair. They were drunk last time, drunk on piss flavored ale and cheap whiskey, but they were drunk now, too, drunk on each other and too lost in their senses to care about anything but the way their skin felt together, the way their fingers interlaced, the way his breath stirred at her scalp.

“Marian,” she murmured finally. “My name is Marian.”

“Marian,” he repeated. Slowly. Reverently.

The way he cradled her cheek when he said it again told her everything else.


End file.
